What will it be at the end for me?
A tamed sheep nativity
Or the roar of a lioness
That makes my existence visible?
What will it be at the end for me?
A journey on the bed of roses,
Or on the thistles that will eventually
Make my fragrance of my struggles and victory
Spread across the eternity?

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It will always be difficult for me to realise,
Why people cannot brace solitude?
For it is in solitude that the art grows-
The art of visualisation, communicating,
The art of drawing a parallel universe on a blank canvas with colours,
With ink, with a mind full of bliss.

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And the barren will continue to grow.
It will turn gloomy and dark,
Till the next ray of sunshine
Appears in the new spring;
Filling your heart with
Hope and mellowing the sorrow.

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Mind and heart.
The mind pens the emotions,
And the heart beats the expressions by reading out loud.
Together the two create a body called literature.

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The dusk invades the horizon
And night decides to gloom over.
The heart prefers peace
Amidst the chaos of the day.
I sit with the diary,
Pouring out the heart,
Relieving self of agony,
Before mixing up
In the hustle at the dawn.

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Head down,
Eyes full of shame,
Be the victim of an elder's flames.

Be beaten,
Be hated,
Dive into the guilt,
And become a person with no strong will.

Be mute,
Act dumb,
Don't flaunt your intellect,
For the world will otherwise call you a lair in an act.

Stay mum,
Be you,
But be what they want,
If pointed fingers at, stay there intact.

Toxic can be childhood,
Did not know the child back then,
But now living it as an elder
Is nothing but a Bane.

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Because the shadows that promised to stay all the time merged into the darkness and left the soul alone.

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The sofa in the living room has witnessed it all,
The men of the family sitting leisurely,
Feeding upon the hot steaming chapattis,
Introspecting upon the future of the nation,
As the women serve them more food.
They would then joke humorously,
A woman cannot be the more than an employee,
Her presence in defence will not help the nation.
Just then for a moment,
The hands rolling the chapattis,
The hands adorned with the handcuffs they made of an accessory,
Stopped in between,
And then began a battle-
A real battle within,
To be or not to be;
Should she accept the unwanted heat
And die of pleasing,
Or should she yell at the top of her voice,
Unleashing the lioness within and exhibit what a real woman can be.
The female head snapped her out from her battle,
Brought her back to her gloomy reality.

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It is the sweat that burns the fear and the anxiety of the unknown.

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